Eberhard: Pride killed him in the end.
Charon: His lies became the bullet that struck him down.
Charon: But it is all meaningless now.
Eberhard: Do you wish you'd stopped her?
Charon: I ... don't know.
Eberhard: Partita's set to be executed before the hospital pulls out today.
Eberhard: No one in the company was willing to pull the trigger.
Eberhard: So we drew straws. Franz pulled the short one.
A heavy silence falls. No one in this world will ever know Charon's expression in this moment.
Eberhard: What happened with that photograph?
Charon: Fabien has passed. He will be put to rest beside the others in the hospital that could not return home.
His commander and friend casts him a silent glance, unsure of what to say.
Charon: Upon return to the field hospital, he was already gone.
Charon: The photograph ultimately failed to find its way into his hands. He died never knowing that Anna awaited him at home.
Eberhard, finally overcoming his indecision, pulls a crumpled letter from his pocket and hands it to Charon.
Eberhard: Wilhelm gave me this letter. It came in from the rear this morning.
Eberhard: Their house—Fabien's and his wife's—burned down about a week ago.
Charon: ... What? Why?
Eberhard: Bad news reaches the rear every day. Not everyone in the fatherland can bear the waiting.
Charon: Fabien ...
Charon: Vows were broken. He was alone when death came for him.
Charon: Vows were broken. He was alone when death came for him.
Charon: Franz shielded a ghost from a bullet, but all that can be done is to apologize.
Charon: Franz shielded a ghost from a bullet, but all that can be done is to apologize.
Charon: Partita chose her path. Ours is a deal that no longer has meaning.
Charon: Partita chose her path. Ours is a deal that no longer has meaning.
Charon: Nothing of what is done here has any meaning at all.
Eberhard: You're not sorry you didn't stop her?
Charon: Correct.
Charon: But ...
Charon: But "I" regret that Walter could not be saved.
The soldiers escorting the withdrawal linger nearby, chatting and rolling cigarettes between their fingers.
Partita sits quietly off to the side, back straight, gaze unwavering.
As Charon approaches, the soldiers flanking Partita rise and give him a brief nod.
Charon offers them two packs of cigarettes. They politely decline and leave.
Partita: The weather's nice today.
Partita: Not like the day you and Walter left, all rain and fog.
Partita: I could hardly make out your faces through the car window back then.
Charon: Have you found peace?
She smiles.
Partita: Peace?
Partita: Throw a handful of dirt into the abyss, and all you'll hear is the echo.
Partita: That's all there is.
Partita: Enough about me, Paul.
Partita: What about you? Will you keep burying the fallen?
Charon: Yes. This road knows no end. As long as war remains, so shall it continue.
Partita: Hah ... You never talked like that before you became a soldier.
Partita: So, you came to the front to become a philosopher, did you?
Charon: ... No.
Partita: What happened, Paul? You haven't cracked a single joke since we ran into each other again.
Partita: You've turned dull.
Charon: Apologies ... Laughter's toll feels unbearably heavy now.
Charon: Even among the dead, there are those that cannot rest.
Partita: Well, at least you can still make fun of yourself—even if you do sound serious.
The soldiers begin to stir, their eyes drifting toward the two of them.
Partita notices and stares back at them.
Partita: You know I'm not some clueless little Fräulein, don't you?
Charon: Of course.
Partita: ... I've figured something out about you.
Partita: Something you haven't realized, or maybe refuse to acknowledge.
Charon: ... What?
Partita: It doesn't matter. Thank you, Charon.
His fingers twitch slightly.
Partita: I hope I'm not the last person to see the pain inside you.
Partita: I hope you one day find who you truly are.
"There is no 'me' left to find." That is what he wishes he could say, but the words fail to materialize.
She stands up and walks toward the soldiers.
Charon: Partita—
She doesn't look back.
Charon watches as Franz picks up his rifle. Noticing his stare, Franz turns away, as stiff and cold as stone.
Something stirs in the space where his innards should be and spreads through every inch of him.
Each throbbing wave of it racks Charon with unease, but all he can do is watch as Franz loads the bullet.
Franz's expression is blurred, distant, unfamiliar—as though he's hiding behind a soldier's mask to execute his duty.
And just like that—it's done.
Franz doesn't even glance at Charon. He simply slips into the line of soldiers and boards the transport.
The convoy roars to life, grinding over scorched ground and dying weeds.
Silence returns.
Only the dead remain, awaiting his hand to bury them beneath the earth.
Fabien, Partita, countless others—the young, tortured faces of war.
He walks alone to meet them, to carry out his last and only duty.
He raises the shovel and plunges it into the earth.
